The Maker of Moons, by Robert W. Chambers

The Purple Emperor

Chapter I.

THE Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out six feet more of waterproof
silk, and, as the line hissed through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like drifting
thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.

“You see,” he said, “I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly.”

“They do in America,” I replied.

“Zut! for America!” observed the Purple Emperor.

“And trout take a tailed fly in England,” I insisted sharply.

“Now do I care what things or people do in England?” demanded the Purple Emperor.

“You don’t care for anything except yourself and your wriggling caterpillars,” I said, more annoyed than I had yet
been.

The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore that obstinate expression which always
irritated me. Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flapping brim rested on
both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons which hung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with
every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of all keeping with his fat red face. When he
met my eye, he chuckled.

“I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan — or Finistère either, for that matter,” he said.

“The Red Admiral knows as much as you do,” I retorted.

“He doesn’t,” replied the Purple Emperor angrily.

“And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours,” I added, moving down the stream to a spot directly
opposite him.

“It is, is it?” sneered the Purple Emperor. “Well, let me tell you, Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn’t
a specimen, a single specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris, commonly known as the ‘Purple
Emperor.’”

“Everybody in Brittany knows that,” I said, casting across the sparkling water; “but just because you happen to be
the only man who ever captured a ‘Purple Emperor’ in Morbihan, it — doesn’t follow that you are an authority on
sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Breton sea-trout won’t touch a tailed fly?”

My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly, and, half turning, waded out into the stream and began
to whip the ripples at the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came drifting by on the summer breeze and hung a
moment above the pool, glittering like an emerald.

“There’s a chance! Where is your butterfly net?” I called across the stream.

“That will do,” I said fiercely. “Can’t I point out an insect in the air without this burst of erudition? Can you
tell me, in simple everyday French, what this little fly is this one, flitting over the eel grass here beside me? See,
it has fallen on the water.”

“Huh!” sneered the Purple Emperor, “that’s a Linnobia annulus.”

“What’s that?” I demanded.

Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool, and the fly disappeared.

“He! he! he!” tittered the Purple Emperor. “Didn’t I tell you the fish knew their business? That was a sea-trout. I
hope you don’t get him.”

He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform bottle, and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box
over his shoulder, stuffed the poison bottles into the pockets of his silver-buttoned velvet coat, and lighted his
pipe. This latter operation was a demoralizing spectacle, for the Purple Emperor, like all Breton peasants, smoked one
of those microscopical Breton pipes which requires ten minutes to find, ten minutes to fill, ten minutes to light, and
ten seconds to finish. With true Breton stolidity he went through this solemn rite, blew three puffs of smoke into the
air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively, and waddled away, calling back an ironical “Au revoir, and bad luck to
all Yankees!”

I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl whose life he made a hell upon earth — Lys Trevec, his
niece. She never admitted it, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks meant on her soft, round arm, and it made
me sick to see the look of fear come into her eyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the café of the Groix Inn.

It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she denied. Marie Joseph and ‘Fine Lelocard had seen him strike
her the day after the Pardon of the Birds because she had liberated three bullfinches which he had limed the day
before. I asked Lys if this were true, and she refused to speak to me for the rest of the week. There was nothing to do
about it. If the Purple Emperor had not been avaricious, I should never have seen Lys at all, but he could not resist
the thirty francs a week which I offered him; and Lys posed for me all day long, happy as a linnet in a pink thorn
hedge. Nevertheless, the Purple Emperor hated me, and constantly threatened to send Lys back to her dreary
flax-spinning. He was suspicious, too, and when he had gulped down the single glass of cider which proves fatal to the
sobriety of most Bretons, he would pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roar curses on me, on Yves Terrec, and
on the Red Admiral. We were the three objects in the world which he most hated: me, because I was a foreigner, and
didn’t care a rap for him and his butterflies; and the Red Admiral, because he was a rival entomologist.

He had other reasons for hating Terrec.

The Red Admiral, a little wizened wretch, with a badly adjusted glass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name
from a butterfly which predominated in his collection. This butterfly, commonly known to amateurs as the “Red Admiral,”
and to entomologists as Vanessa Atalanta, had been the occasion of scandal among the entomologists of France and
Brittany. For the Red Admiral had taken one of these common insects, dyed it a brilliant yellow by the aid of
chemicals, and palmed it off on a credulous collector as a South African species, absolutely unique. The fifty francs
which he gained by this rascality were, however, absorbed in a suit for damages brought by the outraged amateur month
later; and when he had sat in the Quimperlé jail for a month, he reappeared in the little village of St. Gildas soured,
thirsty, and burning for revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and he accepted the name with suppressed
fury.

The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his imperial title legitimately, for it was an undisputed fact
that the only specimen of that beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the Purple Emperor, as it is called by amateurs —
the only specimen that had ever been taken in Finistère or in Morbihan — was captured and brought home alive by Joseph
Marie Gloanec, ever afterward to be known as the Purple Emperor.

When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red Admiral nearly went crazy. Every day for a week he
trotted over to the Groix Inn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and brought his microscope to bear on the
rare newly captured butterfly, in hopes of detecting a fraud. But this specimen was genuine, and he leered through his
microscope in vain.

To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of an Apatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance.
The Museum of Quimper offered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor, though a hoarder of gold, was a
monomaniac on butterflies, and he jeered at the Curator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and France letters of
inquiry and congratulation poured in upon him. The French Academy of Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris
Entomological Society made him an honorary member. Being a Breton peasant, and a more than commonly pig-headed one at
that, these honours did not disturb his equanimity; but when the little hamlet of St. Gildas elected him mayor, and, as
is the custom in Brittany under such circumstances, he left his thatched house to take up an official life in the
little Groix Inn, his head became completely turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly one hundred and fifty people!
It was an empire! So he became unbearable, drinking himself viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreating his
niece, Lys Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, and driving the Red Admiral nearly frantic with his
eternal harping, on the capture of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he had caught the butterfly. The
Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in vain.

“He! he! he!” nagged the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin over a glass of cider; “I saw you sneaking about the St.
Gildas spinny yesterday morning. So you think you can find another Apatura Iris by running after me? It won’t do,
Admiral, it won’t do, d’ye see?”

The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification and envy, but the next day he actually took to his bed, for the
Purple Emperor had brought home not a butterfly but a live chrysalis, which, if successfully hatched, would become a
perfect specimen of the invaluable Apatura Iris. This was the last straw. The Red Admiral shut himself up in his little
stone cottage, and for weeks now he had been invisible to everybody except ‘Fine Lelocard who carried him a loaf of
bread and a mullet or langouste every morning.

The withdrawal of the Red Admiral from the society of St. Gildas excited first the derision and finally the
suspicion of the Purple Emperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he experimenting with chemicals again, or was
he engaged in some deeper plot, the object of which was to discredit the Purple Emperor? Roux, the postman, who carried
the mail on foot once a day from Bannalec, a distance of fifteen miles each way, had brought several suspicious
letters, bearing English stamps, to the Red Admiral, and the next day the Admiral had been observed at his window
grinning up into the sky and rubbing his hands together. A night or two after this apparition the postman left two
packages at the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the way to drink a glass of cider with me. The Purple
Emperor, who was roaming about the café, snooping into everything that did not concern him, came upon the packages and
examined the postmarks and addresses. One of the packages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other was
also square, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box. They were both addressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore
English stamps.

When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried to pump him, but the poor little postman knew nothing
about the contents of the packages, and after he had taken them around the corner to the cottage of the Red Admiral the
Purple Emperor ordered a glass of cider, and deliberately fuddled himself until Lys came in and tearfully supported him
to his room. Here he became so abusive and brutal that Lys called to me, and I went and settled the trouble without
wasting any words. This also the Purple Emperor remembered, and waited his chance to get even with me.

That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not deigned to speak to me.

Lys had posed for me all the week, and today being Saturday, and I lazy, we had decided to take a little relaxation,
she to visit and gossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the neighbouring hamlet of St. Julien, and I to try
the appetites of the Breton trout with the contents of my American fly book.

I had thrashed the stream very conscientiously for three hours, but not a trout had risen to my cast, and I was
piqued. I had begun to believe that there were no trout in the St. Gildas stream, and would probably have given up had
I not seen the sea-trout snap the little fly which the Purple Emperor had named so scientifically. That set me
thinking. Probably the Purple Emperor was right, for he certainly was an expert in everything that crawled and wriggled
in Brittany. So I matched, from my American fly book, the fly that the sea-trout had snapped up, and withdrawing the
cast of three, knotted a new leader to the silk and slipped a fly on the loop. It was a queer fly. It was one of those
unnameable experiments which fascinate anglers in sporting stores and which generally prove utterly useless. Moreover,
it was a tailed fly, but of course I easily remedied that with a stroke of my penknife. Then I was all ready, and I
stepped out into the hurrying rapids and cast straight as an arrow to the spot where the sea-trout had risen. Lightly
as a plume the fly settled on the bosom of the pool; then came a startling splash, a gleam of silver, and the line
tightened from the vibrating rod-tip to the shrieking reel. Almost instantly I checked the fish, and as he floundered
for a moment, making the water boil along his glittering sides, I sprang to the bank again, for I saw that the fish was
a heavy one and I should probably be in for a long run down the stream. The five-ounce rod swept in a splendid circle,
quivering under the strain. “Oh, for a gaff-hook!” I said aloud, for I was now firmly convinced that I had a salmon to
deal with, and no sea-trout at all.

Then as I stood, bringing every ounce to bear on the sulking fish, a lithe, slender girl came hurriedly along the
opposite bank calling out to me by name.

“Why, Lys!” I said, glancing up for a second, “I thought you were at St. Julien with Yvette.”

“Yvette has gone to Bannalec. I went home and found an awful fight going on at the Groix Inn, and I was so
frightened that I came to, tell you.”

The fish dashed off at that moment, carrying all the line my reel held, and I was compelled to follow him at a jump.
Lys, active and graceful as a young deer, in spite of her Pont–Aven sabots, followed along the opposite bank until the
fish settled in a deep pool, shook the line savagely once or twice, and then relapsed into the sulks.

“Fight at the Groix Inn?” I called across the water. “What fight?”

“Not exactly fight,” quavered Lys, “but the Red Admiral has come out of his house at last, and he and my uncle are
drinking together and disputing about butterflies. I never saw my uncle so angry, and the Red Admiral is sneering and
grinning. Oh, it is almost wicked to see such a face!”

“But Lys,” I said, scarcely able to repress a smile, “your uncle and the Red Admiral are always quarrelling and
drinking.”

“I know oh, dear me! — but this is different, Monsieur Darrel. The Red Admiral has grown old and fierce since he
shut himself up three weeks ago, and — oh, dear! I never saw such a look in my uncle’s eyes before. He seemed insane
with fury. His eyes — I can’t speak of it — and then Terrec came in.”

“Oh,” I said more gravely, “that was unfortunate. What did the Red Admiral say to his son?”

Lys sat down on a rock among the ferns, and gave me a mutinous glance from her blue eyes.

Yves Terrec, loafer, poacher, and son of Louis Jean Terrec, otherwise the Red Admiral, had been kicked out by his
father, and had also been forbidden the village by the Purple Emperor, in his majestic capacity of mayor. Twice the
young ruffian had returned: once to rifle the bedroom of the Purple Emperor — an unsuccessful enterprise — and another
time to rob his own father. He succeeded in the latter attempt, but was never caught, although he was frequently seen
roving about the forests and moors with his gun. He openly menaced the Purple Emperor; vowed that he would marry Lys in
spite of all gendarmes in Quimperlé; and these same gendarmes he led many a long chase through brier-filled swamps and
over miles of yellow gorse.

What he did to the Purple Emperor — what he intended to do — disquieted me but little; but I worried over his threat
concerning Lys. During the last three months this had bothered me a great deal; for when Lys came to St. Gildas from
the convent the first thing she captured was my heart. For a long time I had refused to believe that any tie of blood
linked this dainty blue-eyed creature with the Purple Emperor. Although she dressed in the velvet-laced bodice and blue
petticoat of Finistère, and wore the bewitching white coiffe of St. Gildas, it seemed like a pretty masquerade. To me
she was as sweet and as gently bred as many a maiden of the noble Faubourg who danced with her cousins at a Louis XV
fête champêtre. So when Lys said that Yves Terrec had returned openly to St. Gildas, I felt that I had better be there
also.

“What did Terrec say, Lys?” I asked, watching the line vibrating above the placid pool.

The wild rose colour crept into her cheeks. “Oh,” she answered, with a little toss of her chin, “you know what he
always says.”

“That he will carry you away?”

“Yes.”

“In spite of the Purple Emperor, the Red Admiral, and the gendarmes?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you say, Lys?”

“I? Oh, nothing.”

“Then let me say it for you.”

Lys looked at her delicate pointed sabots, the sabots from Pont–Aven, made to order. They fitted her little foot.
They were her only luxury.

“Will you let me answer for you, Lys?” I asked.

“You, Monsieur Darrel?”

“Yes. Will you let me give him his answer?”

“Mon Dieu, why should you concern yourself, Monsieur Darrel?”

The fish lay very quiet, but the rod in my hand trembled.

“Because I love you, Lys.”

The wild rose colour in her cheeks deepened; she gave a gentle gasp, then hid her curly head in her hands.

“I love you, Lys.”

“Do you know what you say?” she stammered.

“Yes, I love you.”

She raised her sweet face and looked at me across the pool.

“I love you,” she said, while the tears stood like stars in her eyes. “Shall I come over the brook to you?”

Chapter ii.

That night Yves Terrec left the village of St. Gildas vowing vengeance against his father, who
refused him shelter.

I can see him now, standing in the road, his bare legs rising like pillars of bronze from his straw-stuffed sabots,
his short velvet jacket torn and soiled by exposure and dissipation, and his eyes, fierce, roving, bloodshot — while
the Red Admiral squeaked curses on him, and hobbled away into his little stone cottage.

“I will not forget you!” cried Yves Terrec, and stretched out his hand toward his father with a terrible gesture.
Then he whipped his gun to his cheek and took a short step forward, but I caught him by the throat before he could
fire, and a second later we were rolling in the dust of Bannalec road. I had to hit him a heavy blow behind the ear
before he would let go, and then, rising and shaking myself, I dashed his muzzle-loading fowling piece to bits against
a wall, and threw his knife into the river. The Purple Emperor was looking on with a queer light in his eyes. It was
plain that he was sorry Terrec had not choked me to death.

“He would have killed his father,” I said, as I passed him, going toward the Groix Inn.

“That’s his business,” snarled the Purple Emperor. There was a deadly light in his eyes. For a moment I thought he
was going to attack me; but he was merely viciously drunk, so I shoved him out of my way and went to bed, tired and
disgusted.

The worst of it was I couldn’t sleep, for I feared that the Purple Emperor might begin to abuse Lys. I lay
restlessly tossing among the sheets until I could stay there no longer. I did not dress entirely; I merely slipped on a
pair of chaussons and sabots, a pair of knickerbockers, a jersey, and a cap. Then, loosely tying a handkerchief about
my throat, I went down the worm-eaten stairs and out into the moonlit road. There was a candle flaring in the Purple
Emperor’s window, but I could not see him.

“He’s probably dead drunk,” I thought, and looked up at the window where, three years before, I had first seen
Lys.

“Asleep, thank Heaven!” I muttered, and wandered out along the road. Passing the small cottage of the Red Admiral, I
saw that it was dark, but the door was open. I stepped inside the hedge to shut it, thinking, in case Yves Terrec
should be roving about, his father would lose whatever he had left.

Then after fastening the door with a stone, I wandered on through the dazzling Breton moonlight. A nightingale was
singing in a willow swamp below, and from the edge of the mere, among the tall swamp grasses, myriads of frogs chanted
a bass chorus.

When I returned, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and across the meadows on the cliffs, outlined against
the paling horizon, I saw a seaweed gatherer going to his work among the curling breakers on the coast. His long rake
was balanced on his shoulder, and the sea wind carried his song across the meadows to me:

St. Gildas!

St. Gildas!

Pray for us.

Shelter us.

Us who toil in the sea.

Passing the shrine at the entrance of the village, I took off my cap and knelt in prayer to Our Lady of Faöuet; and
if I neglected myself in that prayer, surely I believed Our Lady of Faöuet would be kinder to Lys. It is said that the
shrine casts white shadows. I looked, but saw only the moonlight. Then very peacefully I went to bed again, and was
only awakened by the clank of sabres and the trample of horses in the road below my window.

“Good gracious!” I thought, “it must be eleven o’clock, for there are the gendarmes from Quimperlé.”

I looked at my watch; it was only half-past eight, and as the gendarmes made their rounds every Thursday at eleven,
I wondered what had brought them out so early to St. Gildas.

“Of course,” I grumbled, rubbing my eyes, “they are after Terrec,” and I jumped into my limited bath.

Before I was completely dressed I heard a timid knock, and opening my door, razor in hand, stood astonished and
silent. Lys, her blue eyes wide with terror, leaned on the threshold.

“My darling!” I cried, “what on earth is the matter?” But she only clung to me, panting like a wounded sea gull. At
last, when I drew her into the room and raised her face to mine, she spoke in a heart-breaking voice:

“Oh, Dick! they are going to arrest you, but I will die before I believe one word of what they say. No, don’t ask
me,” and she began to sob desperately.

When I found that something really serious was the matter, I flung on my coat and cap, and, slipping one arm about
her waist, went down the stairs and out into the road. Four gendarmes sat on their horses in front of the café door;
beyond them, the entire population of St. Gildas gaped, ten deep.

“Hello, Durand!” I said to the brigadier, “what the devil is this I hear about arresting me?”

“It’s true, mon ami,” replied Durand with sepulchral sympathy. I looked him over from the tip of his spurred boots
to his sulphur-yellow sabre belt, then upward, button by button, to his disconcerted face.

“What for?” I said scornfully. “Don’t try any cheap sleuth work on me! Speak up, man, what’s the trouble?”

The Emperor, who sat in the doorway staring at me, started to speak, but thought better of it and got up and went
into the house. The gendarmes rolled their eyes mysteriously and looked wise.

“Come, Durand,” I said impatiently, “what’s the charge?”

“Murder,” he said in a faint voice.

“What!” I cried incredulously. “Nonsense! Do I look like a murderer? Get off your horse, you stupid, and tell me
who’s murdered.” Durand got down, looking very silly, and came up to me, offering his hand with a propitiatory
grin.

“It was the Purple Emperor who denounced you! See, they found your handkerchief at his door —”

“Whose door, for Heaven’s sake?” I cried.

“Why, the Red Admiral’s!”

“The Red Admiral’s? What has he done?”

“Nothing — he’s only been murdered.”

I could scarcely believe my senses, although they took me over to the little stone cottage and pointed out the
blood-spattered room. But the horror of the thing was that the corpse of the murdered man had disappeared, and there
only remained a nauseating lake of blood on the stone floor, in the centre of which lay a human hand. There was no
doubt as to whom the hand belonged, for everybody who had ever seen the Red Admiral knew that the shrivelled bit of
flesh which lay in the thickening blood was the hand of the Red Admiral. To me it looked like the severed claw of some
gigantic bird.

“Well,” I said, “there’s been murder committed. Why don’t you do something?”

“What?” asked Durand.

“I don’t know. Send for the Commissaire.”

“He’s at Quimperlé. I telegraphed.”

“Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has been coagulating.”

“The chemist from Quimperlé is here; he’s a doctor.”

“What does he say?”

“He says that he doesn’t know.”

“And who are you going to arrest?” I inquired, turning away from the spectacle on the floor.

“I don’t know,” said the brigadier solemnly; “you are denounced by the Purple Emperor, because he found your
handkerchief at the door when he went out this morning.”

“Just like a pig-headed Breton!” I exclaimed thoroughly angry. “Did he not mention Yves Terrec?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” I said. “He overlooked the fact that Terrec tried to shoot his father last night and that I took
away his gun. All that counts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the murdered man’s door.”

“Come into the café,” said Durand, much disturbed, “we can talk it over, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have
never had the faintest idea that you were the murderer!”

The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix Inn and entered the café. It was crowded with Britons,
smoking, drinking, and jabbering in half a dozen dialects, all equally unsatisfactory to a civilized ear; and I pushed
through the crowd to where little Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, stood smoking a vile cigar.

“This is a bad business,” he said, shaking hands and offering me the mate to his cigar, which I politely
declined.

“Now, Monsieur Fortin,” I said, “it appears that the Purple Emperor found my handkerchief near the murdered man’s
door this morning, and so he concludes”— here I glared at the Purple Emperor —“that I am the assassin. I will now ask
him a question,” and turning on him suddenly, I shouted, “What were you doing at the Red Admiral’s door?”

The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at him triumphantly.

“See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he is, and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell
you, gentlemen, that man there knows as well as I do who was the murderer of the Red Admiral!”

“I don’t!” bawled the Purple Emperor.

“You do,” I said. “It was Yves Terrec.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said obstinately, dropping his voice.

“Of course not, being pig-headed.”

“I am not pig-headed,” he roared again, “but I am mayor of St. Gildas, and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed
his father.”

“You saw him try to kill him last night?”

The mayor grunted.

“And you saw what I did.”

He grunted again.

“And,” I went on, “you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his father. You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear
to kill him. Now the father is murdered and his body is gone.”

“And your handkerchief?” sneered the Purple Emperor.

“I dropped it of course.”

“And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking about the Red Admiral’s cottage,” grinned the Purple
Emperor.

I was startled at the man’s malice.

“That will do,” I said. “It is perfectly true that I was walking on the Bannalec road last night, and that I stopped
to close the Red Admiral’s door, which was ajar, although his light was not burning. After that I went up the road to
the Dinez Woods, and then walked over by St. Julien, whence I saw the seaweed gatherer on the cliffs. He was near
enough for me to hear what he sang. What of that?”

“What did you do then?”

“Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I went to bed and slept until Brigadier Durand’s gendarmes
awoke me with their clatter.”

“Now, Monsieur Darrel,” said the Purple Emperor, lifting a fat finger and shooting a wicked glance at me, “Now,
Monsieur Darrel, which did you wear last night on your midnight stroll — sabots or shoes?”

I thought a moment. “Shoes — no, sabots. I just slipped on my chaussons and went out in my sabots.”

“Which was it, shoes or sabots?” snarled the Purple Emperor.

“Sabots, you fool.”

“Are these your sabots?” he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe with my initials cut on the instep.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Then how did this blood come on the other one?” he shouted, and held up a sabot, the mate to the first, on which a
drop of blood had spattered.

“I haven’t the least idea,” I said calmly; but my heart was beating very fast and I was furiously angry.

“You blockhead!” I said, controlling my rage, “I’ll make you pay for this when they catch Yves Terrec and convict
him. Brigadier Durand, do your duty if you think I am under suspicion. Arrest me, but grant me one favour. Put me in
the Red Admiral’s cottage, and I’ll see whether I can’t find some clew that you have overlooked. Of course, I won’t
disturb anything until the Commissaire arrives. Bah! You all make me very ill.”

“He’s hardened,” observed the Purple Emperor, wagging his head.

“What motive had I to kill the Red Admiral?” I asked them all scornfully. And they all cried:

“None! Yves Terrec is the man!”

Passing out the door I swung around and shook my finger at the Purple Emperor.

“Oh, I’ll make you dance for this, my friend,” I said; and I followed Brigadier Durand across the street to the
cottage of the murdered man.

Chapter iii.

They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at the gateway by the hedge.

“Give me your parole,” said poor Durand, “and I will let you go where you wish.” But I refused, and began prowling
about the cottage looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have considered most important, such
as ashes from the Red Admiral’s pipe, footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider, and dust —
oh lots of dust. I was not an expert, only a stupid, everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick
shooting boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope, although the Red Admiral’s microscope
stood on the table close at hand.

At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw, curiously depressed and flattened in the
middle, and I was certain I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest of his life. It was plain
as the nose on your face. The straws were sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking
straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman
who lived near St. Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw! This straw, or rather these
straws, were from the stalks of the red wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas knew, Yves
Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and when, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec
Road brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec, bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong
arms bound behind him, walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around him swelled every minute,
crying: “Parricide! parricide! Death to the murderer!” As he passed my window I saw great clots of mud on his dusty
sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw. Then I walked back into the Red Admiral’s study,
determined to find what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined each one very carefully, and then, my
eyes aching, I rested my chin on my hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some detectives,
for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the
hallway stood a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from beneath the closed lid, dozens of
similar red wheat straws projected, bent exactly as mine were bent by the lid.

I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a detective, and I bitterly pondered over the
difference between clews in real life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked over to the chest
and opened the lid. The interior was wadded with the red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars,
two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, a collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a
book. In a farther corner of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also the torn coverings of two
parcels, all from England, and all directed to the Red Admiral under his proper name of “Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St.
Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistère.”

All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest, and sat down to read the letters. They were
written in commercial French, evidently by an Englishman.

Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:

“LONDON, June 12, 1894.

“DEAR MONSIEUR (sic): Your kind favour of the 19th inst. received and contents noted. The latest work on the
Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer’s How to catch British Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by Sir
Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume, calf) is £5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office order
will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain.

“Yours, etc..

“FRADLEY TOOMER.

“470 Regent Square, London, S.W.”

The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the money had been received and the book would be
forwarded. The third engaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a free one:

“DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received, and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr.
Fradley being much interested in your question, sent your letter to Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological
Society, whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch British Butterflies. We have just received an
answer from Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French —(see inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to
present to you two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision. We forward the same to you. Trusting that you
will find everything satisfactory, we remain.

“Yours sincerely.

“FRADLEY TOOMER.

The inclosed slip read as follows:

“Messrs. FRADLEY TOOMER. “GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon. was first used by Professor Schnoot, of
Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl. I have used it with
great success everywhere. It is as certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars, and would be pleased to
have you forward two of them to your correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer’s quotation of me on page
630 of his glorious work, How to catch British Butterflies, is correct.

“Yours, etc.

“HEINRICH SCHWEINERI.

P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S.”

When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer’s
valuable work, How to catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.

Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very recently, and although all the other pages were
perfectly clean, this particular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a paragraph at the bottom of
the page. This the paragraph:

“Professor Schweineri says: ‘Of the two

old methods used by collectors for the capture of

the swift-winged, high-flying Apatura Iris, or

Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a

long-handled net, proved successful once in a

thousand times; and the second, the placing of

bait upon the ground, such as decayed meat.

dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable.

even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very

uncertain. Once in five hundred times would

the splendid butterfly leave the tops of his

favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid bait

offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure

bait to draw this beautiful butterfly to the

ground, where it can be easily captured. An

ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer under

an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris

within a radius of twenty miles. So, if any

collector who possesses a little cythyl, even

though it be in a sealed bottle in his pocket — if

such a collector does not find a single Apatura

Iris fluttering close about him within an hour.

let him be satisfied that the Apatura Iris does

not inhabit his country.’”

When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking hard. Then I examined the two jars. They were
labelled “Cythyl.” One was full, the other nearly full. “The rest must be on the corpse of the Red Admiral,” I thought,
“no matter if it is in a corked bottle —”

I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel
at the gate saluted me respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The inn was surrounded by an excited crowd, and
the hallway was choked with gendarmes and peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that the real
murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ran upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I
knocked and threw both arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After a moment I asked her if she
would obey me no matter what I commanded, and she said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.

“Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien,” I said. “Ask her to harness the dog-cart and drive to the convent in
Quimperlé. Wait for me there. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?”

She raised her face to mine. “Kiss me,” she said innocently; the next moment she had vanished.

I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor’s room and peered into the gauze-covered box which held the chrysalis
of Apatura Iris. It was as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a great crack ran down the middle
of its back, but, on the netting inside the box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings; for
the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbol of immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I
know now that it was the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after did I know that the Black
Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent over the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which ended in a
furious shout of “Parricide!” and I heard the gendarmes ride away behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty
highway. I went to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two gendarmes at either side of him,
and all around the wagon rode mounted gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.

“Parricide!” they howled. “Let him die!”

I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly I took the splendid butterfly by its closed
fore wings and lifted it unharmed between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealed behind my back, I went
down into the café.

Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of Yves Terrec, only three persons remained seated in
front of the huge empty fireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, and the Purple
Emperor. The latter looked abashed when I entered, but I paid no attention to him and walked straight to the
chemist.

“Monsieur Fortin,” I said, “do you know much about hydrocarbons?”

“They are my specialty,” he said astonished.

“Have you ever heard of such thing as cythyl?”

“Schweineri’s cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfumery.”

“Good!” I said. “Has it an odour?”

“No — and yes. One is always aware of its presence, but nobody can affirm it has an odour. It is curious,” he
continued, looking at me, “it is very curious you should have asked me that, for all day I have been imagining I
detected the presence of cythyl.”

“Do you imagine so now?” I asked.

“Yes, more than ever.”

I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendid creature beat the air for a moment, flitted
uncertainly hither and thither, and then, to my astonishment, sailed majestically back into the café and alighted on
the hearthstone. For a moment I was non-plussed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor I comprehended in a
flash.

“Lift that hearthstone!” I cried to the Brigadier Durand; “pry it up with your scabbard!”

The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastly white, his jaw loose with terror.

“What is cythyl?” I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plunged heavily from his chair, face downward on the
floor, and at the moment a cry from the chemist made me turn. There stood the Brigadier Durand, one hand supporting the
hearthstone, one hand raised in horror. There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid with excitement, and below, in the
hollow bed where the hearthstone had rested, lay a crushed mass of bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared
a cheap glass eye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.

“Look!” I cried; “look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!” but he only smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head
muttering; “Bait for butterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can’t do it, Admiral, d’ye see. I alone own the Purple
Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!”

And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperlé to claim my bride, carried him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a
foaming, howling lunatic.

. . . . . . .

This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you a pleasanter story if I chose; but concerning the
fish that I had hold of, whether it was a salmon, a grilse, or a sea-trout, I may not say, because I have promised Lys,
and she has promised me, that no power on earth shall wring from our lips the mortifying confession that the fish
escaped.